Dreamscape
by Rainbow Stevie
Summary: The attack at the spa had left her more shaken than she realized. [HM, post Driven, oneshot]


_Notes: Hmmm…should one make stories out of fluffy daydreams? Probably not, but apparently that failed to stop me.  
_

_Disclaimer: Natalia Boa Vista's prolonged existence on this show should be proof-positive that I have no control and/or ownership over what goes down onscreen, but just in case, I will fill out a sworn statement to the effect that I did not invent the characters known as Horatio and Marisol. I merely adopted them so they'd have a better home. No? All right, neither CSI Miami nor any of its plotlines and/or characters LEGALLY belong to me. _

**Dreamscape**

_The tile was cold, freezing against her bare skin where she had fallen clad in nothing but a swimsuit, but it wasn't the only reason she scrambled to her feet, cringing against the wall. The face that nightmares are made of spurred her forward, so close she could see spit flying as he barked orders. Then everything was a blur – a furious yell, flash of a gun, burning powder, a body tumbling to the floor beside her, pleading mercy. Not even time to scream before the muzzle turned on her and exploded again._

"No!" She sat up frantically, head whipping left and right as she tried to figure out where the masked men had gone, until slowly her head began to clear, and they faded back into scattered fragments of her subconscious.

_But the blood…_ the other woman's blood had just dripped onto her. She could feel it. Her toes were wet.

Marisol ripped the covers back, shot across the room and flipped on the light, searching her skin for the telltale droplets. When she could find no trace of red, it finally began to sink in that it had all been a dream. She was safe, staying in Horatio's spare bedroom, far away from the crime scene. Not shot.

All a dream – save for the grisly reality of the morning. Marisol had mace of her own, and if her purse had been closer, she might have been the one to grab it, might be lying in the morgue at this moment instead of merely waking up from a nightmare. There was an uncontrollable shivering in her body now, limbs trembling. She couldn't stand being alone another minute.

Bare feet padded down an unfamiliar hallway to his door; it was closed, and she paused, beginning to feel foolish. She was suddenly acutely aware of the implications of coming to his bedroom, especially in light of the desire she'd expressed barely before sunset, and unsure how she was going to get around that particular topic. Yet her hands seemed to have a mind of their own. She turned the knob carefully, glad it didn't squeak, and peeped in.

He was lying just left of center, looking so peaceful that for the second time she stopped, and was on the verge of turning around when he sat up. She involuntarily jumped at the sudden motion; he was tense and alert for a moment until he made sense of the silhouette. "Marisol?"

He sounded more baffled than anything, and she wondered how much of his sharp reaction had been reflexive – he seemed still to be shaking off the last vestiges of sleep. "Is everything all right?"

"I – I can't stop hearing it. The gun. E-Every time I go to sleep, I hear it echoing; seeing her fall, seeing blood, feeling it – I can _feel_ the blood, Horatio..." Anxiety always made the words tumble from her mouth faster than her brain could keep up; Marisol was never sure whether her actual fears were clearly communicated to the other person.

As her voice trailed off, she fidgeted, arms tightly crossed against her chest. She seemed to have lost the capacity to speak, waiting for him to break the silence.

He was no stranger to bad dreams, but the day must have held ten times the shock value for someone unaccustomed to dealing with violence. The frown on his face was one of puzzlement as he searched her expression, mind calculating, trying to understand what she wanted from him. Then his features relaxed, and a fond smile played around the corners of his mouth. Shifting slightly to the side, he extended one arm, palm up in invitation. "C'mere."

She hesitated a minute longer, as worried as ever about imposing on him, but when his gaze remained on her, Marisol went ahead and slid into the bed.

Beside her, Horatio leaned back against the pillows, arm lightly draped around her. He noticed the goosebumps on her skin even if she didn't, and drew the covers over both of them with infinite care. His right arm pulled her imperceptibly closer, the final impetus she needed to relax and nestle against him.

"You want to talk about it?" His low voice was barely more than a murmur in her ear, and Marisol wondered how he could sound so intimate yet completely sincere at once. In the warmth of his embrace, she had almost forgotten what had driven her to him in the first place, and lacked the words to explain. Instead, she shook her head. If the sudden turnaround surprised him, he made no comment and didn't push. "Okay."

They lapsed into silence, disrupted only by the sound of their breathing, and after a minute she felt the tips of his fingers inquisitively probe the edge of the bandage on her forehead, the only physical reminder of the ordeal. It was the first time he'd ventured near the site of the injury, and she winced. It was less in pain than in simple reaction, but the feather-light touch receded, running over her hair instead and then coming to rest atop her hand. Tentative at first, but when she didn't move, closing in a firmer grip. She didn't dare look up to see his expression; the loving gesture was enough to take her breath away.

She'd worried about being selfish. He didn't say a word, but it occurred to her that behind his unshakable resolve was something vulnerable, and that perhaps he needed this moment as much as she did.

Marisol was still thinking it over when she drifted off in search of better dreams.

0000

She was asleep again long before he was, worn out but finally content. His mind, however, had started down a new line of thought, and refused to be so easily quieted.

For Marisol, he'd been the picture of calm, patient and reassuring. She needed his steadiness, an anchor as her day grew increasingly worse, and he'd been willing and able to fulfill that role.

She hadn't seen his heart skip beats all day.

"_One of the witnesses was Marisol."_

"_She's not answering her cell and the alarm just went off at her house."_

Shattered glass and blood on the living room floor.

It wasn't until now, hours later, that he could pinpoint that as the precise moment he first thought about the possibility of losing her. Until then, they'd simply been two people sharing a mutual attraction, enjoying each other's company one day at a time. He was well aware of the cancer; had assured Eric that a little time with her was better than none at all, but he'd never actually stopped to imagine what it would be like to have her suddenly gone.

Because he couldn't.

He just hadn't known he couldn't until that instant, that one sickening, heart-stopping instant, seeing the flowers he'd brought the day before dying in a pool of water, their vivid red fading, a macabre complement to the viscous maroon staining the wood nearby. But the blood belonged to a dead criminal; a body had never brought such a sense of relief. He realized then that one way or another he wanted her to be a permanent fixture in his life.

They'd escaped tragedy today. What if the outcome had been different? The thought of what _could _have happened ached, and he held her tighter, absurdly grateful that he was able to hold her at all.

Nothing was going to take her from him without a fight.


End file.
